


Braided

by theMightyPen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Tangled (2010)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, so happy birthday G, this is what happens when you run late on birthday presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how Robb Stark died. (But don't worry, this is a fun story and the truth is, it's not even his.) This is the story of a girl named Wynafryd Manderly, who had a pet chameleon named Wylla, a mean swing with a frying pan, an uncle who loved her, and oh, a long blonde braid of magical hair that may or may not glow when she sings.</p>
<p>Complicated does not even begin to describe.</p>
<p>(A ASoIaF/Tangled crossover. Sort of.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Braided

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wickedg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedg/gifts), [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



“Today’s the day, Wylls!” Fred cries, scratching the chameleon’s head with glee. “Today’s the day I finally ask Uncle Wendel if he’ll let me see the floating lights!”

Wylla turns a bright yellow, beaming up at her from her perch on the arm of Fred’s chair. Fred giggles, turning back to her painting—this one was of a mermaid diving beneath the waves, her long green hair billowing out behind her—“I can’t believe I turn eighteen today, Wylla, it’s so exciting!”

The chameleon makes another noise of excitement, her tail wriggling back and forth.

“Well, no, I hadn’t thought about that…of course you’re coming with me! As if I’d leave you behind. Please.”

Wylla gives a little gurgle of laughter, rubbing up against Fred’s hand in conciliatory gesture.

“Little scamp.”

“Wynafryd!” Uncle Wendel’s familiar voice calls, interrupting their play. “Wynafryd, let down your hair!”

Fred gives a happy smile, twirling as she stands—today is going to be perfect, she just knows it—before throwing her long, blonde braid out of the window, only wincing a little when her uncle gives a tug to signal he’s ready on the other end.

“Ah, there you are, my pet.” Uncle Wendel says once he’s climbed inside. “Looking lovely today, as always…and particularly smiley! Any reason for that grin, dear?”

“Haha, very funny.” Fred says drily before hugging him around the waist. “You know it’s my birthday, Uncle Wen.”

“It can’t be.” He says, giving her head a gentle pat. “I distinctly remember; your birthday came last year.”

“That’s the thing about birthdays, Uncle Wen.” Fred says. “They tend to be annual.”

She gives Wylla—who is conveniently hidden against a nearby flower pot, Fred hasn’t gotten around to telling Uncle Wendel about her best friend quite yet—a wink.

“So I was thinking….” Fred starts, twisting her hair nervously. “For my birthday, I’d like something different this year.”

“Don’t I always get you something, pet?” He asks, pulling a book—about plants too, oh, he does always know what to bring her—from his satchel with a smile.

“You do—thank you, Uncle Wen—but this year, I was wondering…”

“Don’t mumble, Wynafryd, you know I can’t stand mumbling.”

Fred sighs, straightening up with a smile. “I want to see the floating lights!”  
Uncle Wendel gives her a perplexed look and Fred sighs, moving over to pull aside the curtain. “Every year, on my birthday, the sky is filled with them.”

“Those are stars, dear.” He says gently.

“But that’s just it! I’ve tracked the stars; and these only appear one night and seem to come from beyond the forest.” She sighs, pressing a hand to her heart. “And I want to see them, Uncle Wendel! Not just from the window, but…from where they come from.”

All amusement drains from his face and he gives her a stony look. “Wynafryd, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know, but Uncle—”

“There are men out there who will want you, not only for your hair.” He says sternly. “And I am not about to let my niece gallivant the forest where ruffians and thieves and scoundrels will be waiting to ambush her—”

“But you could come with me—”

“No. You are not leaving this tower. Ever.” He sinks into a chair at Fred’s crushed look. “Great, now I’m the bad guy.”

Fred says nothing, letting the curtain cover her painting without a sound.

Wylla is a dark blue against the flowerpot and Fred feels as if she’s that color too.

\--

The first thought that comes to Grayson’s mind as he dangles over a cliff with a maniac horse stomping at him is that no crown is worth this.

It repeats over and over again, like a mantra, as he and said horse (apparently named Jon; honestly, who names a horse Jon?) plummet to their certain doom, only to somehow miraculously survive by landing in a giant pile of leaves. 

The horse is somewhat wedged under the tree they’d been clinging to, his grey eyes burning as Grayson gives him a cheeky salute before scampering off.

Finding the tower is an added bonus; he needs a rest, after all.

Getting hit over the head by a frying pan was never part of the plan.

Neither was waking up tied to a chair by an enormous….blonde….braid?

This was the weirdest day of his life. 

Even weirder when he’s awoken by a tongue in his ear (and not in the enjoyable way, mind you, there’s no way a gecko tongue could ever be appealing) and he jumps, knocking the feisty looking animal to ground where it appears to growl at him.

He’s distracted from his confusion at the small creature—now it seems to be trying to chew on his boot, how strange—by a movement in the shadows. 

“Who…who are you?” Asks a voice.

“Grayson Wind.” He answers, charm on full force. “And who might you be?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know!” The voice hisses back. “I know you’re here for my hair!”

“Lady, the only thing I want from your hair is to be out of it.” He says with an eye roll. “Literally.”

“You…you don’t want my hair?” The voice is curious, now. “Or…anything else Uncle Wen says men want from young maidens?”

“No promises there, sweetheart, but I’d have to see you first.”

“Of all the insufferable—” The voice grumbles, and suddenly a tall, slender girl steps into view, her long, blonde braid trailing behind her. “There, satisfied?”

“Quite.” Grayson says; oh, she is pretty, with wide blue eyes, gorgeous cheekbones (who notices cheekbones, Gods, he’s gone soft), a mouth that’s quirked in suspicion but he suspects can smile and laugh prettily as well; and she’s thin, but not unshapely—

“If you’re not here for my hair,” She says, pointing a frying pan at him (that explained the lump he can feel at the back of his head), “why are you here?”

“I was chased by a horse, needed somewhere to escape, and your tower appeared. Mere coincidence. I had—” His voice cuts off as he realizes his satchel is missing. “W-where is--?”

“I’ve hidden it.” The girl says smugly. “Somewhere you’ll never find it.”

Grayson looks around the room before smirking. “It’s in that pot, isn’t it?”

Darkness and the frying pan descend again. 

\--

Another tongue in the ear again later, Grayson is kicking himself for letting himself be outsmarted by some girl, just barely resisting the urge to knock his head against the nearest tree as she dances around in the grass, the creek, the flowers, pausing occasionally to talk to that strange pet of hers (Wynafryd—or Fred, as she prefers to be called—has informed him that the creature’s name is Wylla and that she is a chameleon; Grayson is more inclined to believe it’s a small dragon, the way she keeps glaring at him.)

Finally, the girl calms down enough so they can start walking, her dragging the blasted frying pan along the whole time.

He decides to pay her (and the mini-dragon) back a little by taking them to the Snuggly Duckling, where the thugs of the worst sort gather (including Arya’s latest paramour, gigantic Gendry, and Rickon, when he’s not off scaring people with Shaggydog). 

The plan backfires when Gendry recalls that he hates Grayson Wind and Rickon isn’t around to call the Brotherhood off.

She does, though.

Fred. 

Somehow, she manages to calm the whole bar down, telling them all about her dream about seeing the floating lights and quite a bit more about aquatic plants than likely anyone needed to know, but it works. 

He’s thinking this adventure may not be so bad after all (Fred’s effortless charm had gotten him a mug of ale and spared him many fists to the face already). 

And then the damn horse bursts in again, and ruins everything. 

\--

Fred has always been curious for as long as she can remember, asking Uncle Wen a thousand questions and happily devouring every book he’s ever brought back for her. 

And right now there is no greater mystery than the handsome (she hadn’t known how to apply that word before meeting him, but now she thinks she knows its definition all too well), irritating (that too, had lacked clear definition before Grayson), stubborn man in front of her, and she is determined to draw something out of him besides exasperation. 

“So…Grayson. Where are you from?” Fred asks.

“Whoa, there, blondie.” Grayson says, giving her a stern look. “I don’t do backstory. Though I am becoming more and more interested in yours.”

She inclines her head at him, just barely stifling a laugh as Wylla gives a grumpy hiss as Grayson grumbles something and the man jumps, glaring back at the chameleon.

“Why does that thing hate me, anyways?”

“Probably because you call her a thing.”

“Hah.” He snorts. “But anyways, back to you; I know I’m not supposed to ask about the hair—”

Fred gives her braid a pat. “Nope.”

“—or the uncle—“

“Uh uh.”

“—and frankly, I’m too scared to ask about the dragon.”

Fred rolls her eyes as Wylla puffs up. “Chameleon.”

“Nuance.”

They grin at each other for a moment and Fred is on the verge of asking him why he hasn’t tried to leave her yet when there’s a sudden call of, “Wind! We know you’re in there!”

Grayson’s face scrunches in alarm and he snags her by the arm, pulling her along behind him. “No time for small talk, blondie, we’ve got to get a move on.”

\--

Fred can’t help but cry as the water keeps pouring in around them, her hair plastered wetly to her forehead as Wylla shivers on top of her head and Grayson tries again to pry a rock free.

She gives her own effort—she did not come this far just to die, to drown in some cave when she’s finally gotten within miles of her life’s dream—but Grayson hauls her to the surface. “Hey! Wynafryd! It’s dark and you’ll waste what time we have left if you try to get us out.”

“This is all my fault.” She says. “If I hadn’t—”

“If anything, it’s my fault for all of those people chasing us.” He says comfortingly.

“Grayson—”

“Robb.” He says suddenly, looking shy. “My real name is Robb Stark.”

Fred laughs, giving a small sniffle. “I have magic hair that glows when I sing.”

“What?”

“I have—” Fred’s eyes widen in realization. “I have magic hair that glows when I sing!”

And she manages to sing just the right words before the water closes over them and her hair, her braid, saves them.

\--

“We’re made it!” Crows Fred, climbing up almost instantly.

Robb lifts his head from the riverbank, eyes wide. “Her hair glows.”

“We’re alive. We’re alive!”

“I didn’t see that coming.” Robb turns to the chameleon, still in shock.

“Robb.” Fred says, but he can’t think because her hair glows—

“The hair actually glows.”

“Robb.” She tries again.

“Why does her hair glow?” He asks Wylla, who merely smirks (can chameleons smirk?)

“Robb!”

“What?!” His voice cracks and Fred giggles.

“It doesn’t just glow.”

He looks back to Wylla, who is now definitely smirking, and…nodding?

“Why is she smiling at me?”

\--

Wendel has a nasty feeling about the Bolton boys—Ramsay more than Roose, though the older man is very far from pleasant—but he has to get Wynafryd back; Wylis and Leona had entrusted him with her and the thought of something bad happening to her causes his heart nearly to stop in his chest.

The fact that she’s travelling with Grayson Wind, of all bloody people, has done nothing to ease his worries.

The man is wanted in both his brother’s kingdom and all of the surrounding ones; the boy and his family tried to rebel against their king and it caused disaster.

No, that is certainly not the sort of man he trusts with his Wynnie, and for that reason alone, he’ll work with people he likes even less than the damned Freys that put the spell on Wynafryd in the first place. 

\--

“You’re being awfully cryptic as you wrap your magic hair around my injured hand.” Robb says, trying desperately for levity.

“Hush, twit.” Fred says, voice gentle despite her words. “I told you it doesn’t just glow, right?”

He’s quiet as she sings the same lullaby she’d sang in the cave earlier and it gives him time just to look at her (and to ignore the glowing braid that curls all the way around them); he’d been wrong in saying she was merely pretty.

Beautiful was a more apt term, and kind, and smart, with a sharp tongue too, which was something he could appreciate after being around many a brainless barmaid and—

Wylla is smiling at him again and pointing at her own little hand and Robb stops daydreaming for a moment to look at his own hand, wrapped in Fred’s hair.

“Don’t freak out, alright?” She says and Robb tugs his hand free, only to have his mouth fall open.

His hand is healed. No scarring, no blood, no…anything.

And he very nearly screams, but Fred’s anxious face pulls him back to himself.

She finally talks about her hair and her uncle (and the chameleon, funnily enough) and that prompts him to tell her the truth behind Grayson Wind and why no one besides his brothers and sisters have called him Robb Stark in years. 

It feels good to tell someone about Mum and Dad, to talk about Arya and Sansa and Bran and Rickon as his siblings rather than the infamous Starks. 

Fred’s a fantastic listener and Robb feels like he’s talking her ear off and tells her so.

The smile she gives him is wistful. “I don’t mind. I’ve really only ever had Uncle Wen and Wylla to talk to before…”

And suddenly he wants to hug her, this brave, beautiful girl who’s already made such a difference in his life (Gods, he had definitely gone soft, but he thinks it might be about time). 

He settles for tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear and telling her how glad he is he met her.

This time, her smile is bright and as pretty as the rest of her.

Gods, he’s a goner.

\--

He’ll never understand how the bloody horse found them, in the whole damn forest, but he’s actually scared for his life as the thing yanks his boot from his leg, only stopping when Fred intercedes (with Wylla giving directions from atop her head). 

Jon the Horse takes to Fred immediately (Robb tries not to be jealous of a horse, he really does) and Wylla takes to riding on Robb’s shoulder, clearly unsettled by the new animal’s presence. 

(She stays a strange pink color most of the day, which Robb worries about and Fred thinks is hilarious, for some reason. Jon, obviously, has no comment.)

For once, he’s not recognized when they reach the city, and he gets to take Fred around the entire festival, delighted purely by how obviously delighted she is.

Everything is an adventure to her (he supposes it would be to him too if he’d spent 18 years in a tower) and she drags him along behind her into the library, a group dance, the line at a pastry cart.

It’s the most fun he’s had in years.

The only moment of seriousness is when they stumble upon a mural of the lost princess; a tiny, pretty blonde baby in her parents’ arms that no one’s seen for years and the reason behind the whole festival.

Fred’s never heard of her and that strikes Robb as strange; he’s not even from this kingdom, but he’d known about the Lost Princess before he’d ever come here, back when he was a little boy playing with wooden swords and dreaming about being a knight. 

She looks so sad at the thought, too; “Her poor parents,” she says sadly, touching the mural queen’s face and then the king’s, “imagine what that must be like for them.”

He almost says at least the didn’t watch her die, the way he did with Mum and the way Sansa and Arya did with Dad, but he can’t make her more sad, not today, her bloody birthday, after all, so he puts an arm around her shoulders for a gentle squeeze and leads her away from the sparkling mural. 

It’s his idea to row out to the center of the lake to let their lanterns go (she’d hugged him for that, face pressed up against his neck and all of the breath had rushed out of his lungs), and it had only taken a bag of apples for Jon and a gentle stroke of Wylla’s head to get them to stay on the dock.

Fred nearly tips them over when the first lanterns appear, but her overwhelming joy at finally seeing them in person makes up for any smidgeon of irritation he might feel about almost falling in the water. 

“What do you see?” He asks.

Fred turns back to him, one hand on the flower he’d tucked behind her ear earlier in the day. “The lights, of course. Aren’t they beautiful?”

And he can’t believe what he allows to come out of his mouth (but that’s part of Fred’s magic, he supposes, glowing, healing hair aside), but he gives a small smile and says, “I’ve seen better.”

The looks she gives him is shy, and a little apprehensive, but then she’s climbing back to her seat, hands twisting anxiously in her lap.

He covers them with his own (and is pleased to note he only trembles a little) and she blushes, and they both lead towards each other, and—

“Uncle Wendel?” Fred says suddenly and Robb freezes. He’s been called many a wrong name before, but never someone’s uncle…

“What?”

“I—over there, on the shore…”

Robb turns to where she’s pointing, and sure enough there’s a hooded figure there, frantically waving at them.

Against his better judgment, he rows them there (pausing only for a second to think if something happens to them, he’s likely to be brought back from the dead to be murdered by a chameleon and a horse). 

“Wynafryd, thank the gods.” The older man says, wrapping her in a hug. “Are you hurt?”

“No, Uncle Wen.” She says, smiling at him. “Robb’s taken good care of me.”

The man’s blue eyes flick to him and Robb resists the urge to flinch. “Stealing maidens a new habit of yours, Wind?”

“His name is Robb, Uncle.” Fred interrupts, hands on her hips. “And he didn’t steal me; I forced him to take me here.”

“But—”

“Did you really think you could keep me in that tower forever?” Fred asks. “I’m grown now, Uncle, and I am tired of watching life pass me by! And for what? Because you think I may be robbed or hurt or—”

“Wynafryd, it was for your protection—”

“Protection?” Robb cuts in, stepping between Fred and her uncle. “What sort of man locks a girl in a tower for her whole life to protect her?”

“The kind that knows the truth about her hair.” A monotone voice says, making them all jump. “And her heritage.”

The Bolton boys emerge from the shadows and Robb whirls on Wendel. “You’re working with them?”

“No!” He cries. “Well—I was—they’re the best trackers for two kingdoms, but I paid them once I saw you two in the city—”

“Did you really think it was your gold we were after, old man?” Ramsay asks. “You shouldn’t have let your name slip; everyone knows about the rebellious younger Manderly prince who vanished on a secret mission, all those years ago…around the same time as his niece, as a matter of fact.”

“It didn’t take much to work out the truth.” Says Roose. “After all, how many other blonde maidens with magical hair are there in the kingdom?”

“No one knows about her hair.” Wendel growls. “No one could have possibly—”

“They can if you torture it out of them.” Ramsay says with a shrug. “People tend to be very talkative when you’re flaying the skin off of their fingers.”

Robb’s blood has turned to ice. “Fred,” he says quietly, “run.”

She stares at him for a moment, eyes wide. “No. No, I’m not leaving you—”

“And who’s to say we’ll let her get away?”

Robb and Wendel share a look before both of them pull out their swords, ignoring Fred’s gasp and subsequent kicks to the back of their legs.

Roose sighs. “I haven’t got time to kill you. Ramsay, incapacitate them, but leave them alive.”

“Must I?”

The older Bolton gives him a sharp look and before Wendel can even react, Ramsay darts forward, sticking him with some sort of dart that has the older man crumpling to the ground, unconscious.

“Uncle Wen!” Fred screams and everything happens so quickly; Robb swings his sword at Ramsay, who laughs, Roose sighs again, Fred falls to her knees beside her uncle, and then Robb feels a sharp prick of something in his neck.

The last thing he sees is Fred’s horrified face before he slumps to the ground as well.

\--

When he comes to, Wylla’s tongue is in his ear again and Jon is standing over him, curly mane nearly in Robb’s eyes.

“Wind?” A voice says weakly and Robb stumbles to his feet; Fred’s uncle is still on the ground, wheezing. “You’ve got to go after her.”

“I was planning on it.” Gods, but his head is throbbing, and he can scarcely think straight—“Where would they have gone?”

“The tower. That godforsaken tower.” Wendel groans. “Please, I’ll give you anything, just keep her safe—”

“I want nothing.” Robb spits. “And I’m doing this for her, not for you.”

“What do you know,” the older man chuckles, “there are knights in armor after all.”

“The quickest way there?” Robb asks, strapping his sword back around his waist. 

“Down by the river and up through the valley.” Wendel answers. “I’ll come—”

“No.” Robb says firmly. “Gods know why, but she adores you, and I’ll not be responsible for you riding in this state.”

Wendel regards him silently for a moment. “You love her, don’t you?”

Robb flushes—love her? He’s only known her for two days, how could he possibly love her—but then again, how could he not? Any man would love her, brave and strong and pure as she is.

So he nods, just once.

“Then save her.” Wendel says.

\--

The ride there is shorter than he imagined, but the again, Jon is very fast and Wylla is surprisingly good at directing him, despite being a chameleon and all.

He climbs the loose bricks to the top of the tower, near hysterical in his fear that he’s too late, that she’s been hurt, that they’re not there—

But he sees her as soon as he climbs inside; Fred’s tied up, but unhurt, and she struggles desperately as he moves towards her.

“It’s alright, Fred, we’ll get out of this—”

And then his voice cuts off as something plunges into him and Fred shrieks, audible from even behind her gag.

“Father couldn’t make it up the tower.” Ramsay croons, stepping back with a smirk. “His hands weren’t strong enough to make the climb, but I could. And besides, a ransom is more hefty for one than split between two.”

Robb slumps back against a pillar; he can’t have been stabbed, he can’t, he was supposed to save her, to protect her, to get her out of here—

“Come along then, poppet.” Ramsay says, dragging Fred back towards the trap door. “Let’s not interrupt loverboy’s dying thoughts, mm?”

“No!” Fred finally yells, kicking away from him. “I will never go with you! I will never stop fighting; and you don’t seem the type to want to deal with that, Ramsay Bolton.”

Ramsay regards her for a minute. “This is true. I sense a proposition, Princess. Continue.”

“If you let me heal him,” Fred says, voice like ice, “I will go with you wherever you want. I will never try to escape. You can use my hair for whatever you please; cut it, sell it, make me heal your allies; I’ll do it. Just let me heal him.”

“Fred, Fred, no…” Robb says weakly.

“Anything, you say?” Ramsay asks. “That does sound ideal…”

“Make a decision!” Fred cries. “He’s dying.”

“My, my, impatient aren’t we? Fine, then, I agree.” He bends to untie Fred’s hands. “Make it quick.”

Fred gasps and scrambles over to Robb. “Robb, here, move your hands—”

“Fred, I can’t let you do this.”

She smiles sadly at him. “And I can’t let you die.”

“Fred—”

“Hey.” She says, her fingers gentle on his cheek. “It’ll be okay.”

She’s just gotten her braid situated over his side when Robb gasps, “Fred” again and she turns to look at him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of her neck and she lets him pull her down—this may be the one chance she has to kiss him, her one and only chance—but then there’s a sudden ripping noise and her head feels so much lighter and hair is suddenly hanging around her face and—

He’d cut her braid.

And the hair hanging in front of her eyes is suddenly brown, and the great, coiling braid is changing color as well, even as Ramsay gathers some of it up in his arms as if he’s trying to protect it.

“Well.” He says, once it’s all lost its usual, bright color. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”

But he can’t take more than two steps towards her when he suddenly seems to trip; someone has pulled the length of her severed braid taught and Ramsay flails, trying to regain balance, only to plummet out the window as Fred watches on in horror.

“Wylls?” She asks quietly and the chameleon gives a squeak, scurrying over to crawl in Fred’s lap.

Robb’s cough draws her attention back to him and Fred wants to cry; he’s so pale, so pale and his eyes can barely stay open and he looks in such pain—

“No, no, no, no, Robb, stay with me—“

“Fred—“

“Flower gleam and glow—“ Her voice chokes even as she presses his hand to her short, brown hair—boring, useless, not magic, not healing, oh Gods—“let your power shine—“

“Fred.” Robb says again. She stops, staring at him. “It’s okay.”

“How can you—”

“Fred.” He interrupts her again, reaching up to cup her cheek. “You…you were my new dream.”

And she can’t breathe, why had she ever thought heartbreak was beautiful in books, heartbreak was terrible and awful and final and—

“And you were mine.”

And then those blue eyes close and she knows her heart is breaking.

“Robb?”

There’s no response and she can’t breathe for the feeling in her chest; tears finally bubble over as she cradles him in her arms.

\--

Robb groans as he opens his eyes; hadn’t he already done this once today?

“Robb?” 

Oh, that was much more pleasant than waking up to a horse standing over you and a chameleon’s tongue in your ear.

“Fred?” He asks back. “Have I ever told you I have a thing for brunettes?”

And then she’s laughing and maybe crying too and the she throws herself at him, arms tight around his neck as she takes a shuddering breath against his shoulder and he hugs her back—he’s not sure how he’s here but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care, not with his arms full of a semi-weeping Fred (Princess Wynafryd Manderly, oh Gods).

And then she does one more miracle for the day; she kisses him.

It’s just an innocent press of lips, at first, but she gives no resistance when he sinks a hand into her hair and holds her close, coaxing her mouth open with his own and his heart nearly stops when her tongue ghosts along his own, completely unbidden.

She’s a natural at this.

So natural that it takes Wendel calling, “Wynafryd! Robb!” eight different times before they realize he’s standing at the base of the tower, and they’re both still blushing when they climb back down. 

After Wendel’s hugged Fred and shaken Robb’s hand, he smiles at them before turning to Fred again.

“So tell me, my girl,” he asks, “how would you feel about introducing this boy to your parents?”

\--

Fred’s parents are everything she ever dreamed of and more; Papa cries when he sees her and Mummy asks no questions, only throws her arms around her little girl and holds her close. They love her unconditionally, from her brown hair to her tendency to go barefoot and her continued insistence that Wylla remain with her always (though she’s having a harder and harder time of coaxing Wylla out of the stables for any length of time, and if she waits long enough, Jon will come trotting up to her window most nights, looking for her best friend). 

They even love Robb, especially after Uncle Wen tells them the story of Fred’s rescue and the subsequent breaking of the spell that had been put on her as an infant (that’s the story behind her hair, as it had been before Robb had cut it).

“We couldn’t risk other kingdoms knowing about you and your hair, sweetling.” Papa says one night. “A princess with healing powers? Some would have named you witch and others would have tried to kidnap you.”

“We trusted Wendel to keep you safe.” Mummy says, smiling warmly at her brother-in-law. “And he did a fine job.”

“Near as fine a job as young Robb here.” Wendel says, affectionately thumping the younger man on the back. “Who would’ve known that within the ruffian Grayson Wind lurked a true white knight?”

“A diamond in the rough.” Fred teases, grin widening when Robb blushes.

(He is rather adorable when he blushes, whether from her family’s teasing or when she pushes him up against a wall to kiss him senseless; yes, kissing, Fred likes.)

“So what’s next, Princess?” Robb asks as they stroll the garden, holding hands. “More adventures? Terrible curses? A prince in disguise?”

“No, you twit.” She says fondly, pulling him close by the front of his shirt. “Now we live happily ever after.”

He kisses her, one hand in her hair and the other on her waist. “That sounds nice too.”


End file.
